


Cold Comfort

by OptimusCrime (almcvay1)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Natasha Feels, POV Multiple, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almcvay1/pseuds/OptimusCrime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Civil War, the Avengers are no longer a team. But Natasha Romanov will never abandon the people she cares about. Even if he doesn't remember who she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fallout

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a random headcannon I shared with some friends (Elizabitca (the Enabler) and MinP1072 (the Incorrigible)) and then it just ran away with me.  
> ETA: OK, this chapter has had some major work done. To the point where it's mostly a brand new chapter. The more I wrote of this story, the less the first chapter pleased me, so I had to go back and rewrite. We'll see how it goes from here.

The fallout from the Sokovian Accords was devastating. The Avengers, as they were, no longer existed. Rhodey was focused on recovery, Clint went back into retirement after Cap broke them out of the supermax facility. So far, they seemed to be safe, as long as they stayed out of the public domain. The penny was still in the air for now; but once the government got its act together, it would drop.

Steve and Bucky found a place to live in Philadelphia, a brownstone that needed some work, but had plenty of room. Sam moved in with them to help with Bucky; his experience with veterans with PTSD came in handy, as well as an extra pair of hands when night terrors struck. The rent was reasonable, but it definitely helped to split it. Sam still had his military pension and Steve still had savings from the back pay the Army had forked over for being frozen for seventy years. It was hard at first, cut off from the resources Tony Stark had always provided with an open hand. It made Steve wonder if he had ever really shown his appreciation before it all detonated in their faces.The money wasn't the worst of it. Getting Bucky the help he needed without the SHIELD resources was proving tough. Thankfully, Wanda stayed with them, since she had no legal standing in the US. She was better with technology and devoted herself to research on PTSD. Also, she cooked. Steve had told her repeatedly that they didn't expect her to feed them, certainly not every day, but Wanda insisted that cooking helped her as much as them. Steve was grateful to her; Bucky loved her paprikash. The Eastern European flavors were familiar to his palate, they soothed him, even on his worst days.

They had become, more or less, mercenaries. Steve’s old Captain America uniform was folded and stuffed in a bin in the closet. He had swiped some SHIELD tactical gear from an abandoned armory/safe house that Natasha had helped him locate. The fit wasn’t as good, but they made do. And for all intents and purposes, they were criminals now, black somehow seemed appropriate.

 

Natasha Romanov specialized in hiding in plain sight. She knew too well that people would always see what they wanted to see. She just made sure to live down to their expectations. After she had dumped all of SHIELD’s and Hydra’s files into cyberspace, she lost much of her anonymity but not all of it. She was the Black Widow, the last of her kind, and the only person who would ever know all of her secrets was her. 

The loss of the Avengers hurt much worse than she thought it would. She had never realized how much she relied on the people around her, not just in firefights, but for companionship. Even when Thor had gone back to Asgard and Bruce fallen off-grid; she had people to spend time with, she had friends. Natasha still couldn’t figure out how it had gone so horribly wrong.

When she closed her eyes, she could still see the slight sting of betrayal on Steve's face when she had sided with Tony. For a moment, the fear of losing his friendship was icy cold in her chest.He was accustomed to her having his back, especially since DC and the fall of SHIELD. But, Steve  understood her in ways the others didn’t, except for Clint. He respected her and her choice. She was afraid of what she could see being written on the wall by the governments of the world they tried to save. There were very few things in the world that Natasha valued, but the people she called friend were paramount. Better that she disappeared completely. So she did. 

She knew Tony would take care of Rhodey and Vision. It was the others that worried her most. It took money, a lot of it, to stay off the public radar, and none of them were multi billionaires. Bucky needed extensive long-term therapy, probably medication, to help piece back together his fractured memory.  None of that was cheap. 

Natasha found herself wondering if the man once known as James Barnes would remember her. If he would remember his time at the Russian facility where the Black Widow program was born. They brought him in to train the more advanced students, like herself. She was fourteen when she first saw him. He never had a name that anyone used. He was only addressed as “Soldat”. He was in and out of her life for several years, as her trainer. Once she began to receive regular assignments, he became her handler. Eventually he became her partner. He looked a little different now, older, the weight of what he could not remember sat so heavily on those broad shoulders; but his ice blue eyes were the same ones she dreamed of every night.

It took her less than a month to decide to visit them in Philly. She needed to know, needed to see him for herself. Even in her own mind, she couldn’t decide if she wanted him to remember or not. They had been...important to each other once, but she couldn’t bring herself to wish the horror of their shared memories on the man sitting across from her. His face was calm and relaxed that day, as he sat in an easy chair in their small living room. Steve left her alone with him after a few minutes. Natasha sat on the edge of the couch, studying him openly in the early spring sunlight that came in through the window. Nerves made her want to fidget, so she held herself very still, making some small talk about  the weather and how he was feeling. His answers were brief, as though he didn’t understand why she was asking. He only looked at her twice the entire time they spoke. There was no spark of recognition in his eyes. The pain that spiked in Natasha’s chest was that of a blade driven home, equal parts sadness and relief and she rose from her seat to leave with a quiet goodbye. 

Steve’s face was tired, a little worn down around the edges but his sympathy telegraphed through the silence of the kitchen. The cup of tea he handed her was warm and solid in her hands, comforting. He knew what she and Bucky had been once. She told him what feels like decades ago, in a rare moment of candor and after a superhuman amount of vodka, about what happened between them. Now his compassion was like a medicinal balm to Natasha, hurting even as it healed.

The man who was once called Bucky stared pensively into the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. This was his favorite place to sit; he could see the street outside and the cross street at the end of the block, a turn of his head and he could see all the way to the back edge of their building. As sight lines went, it was the best seat in the house. The other nice part was the bird feeders in their tiny garden. Steve made sure they were stocked and he enjoyed watching the variety of birds that visited. Sometimes Wanda ( _ her name was Wanda, he reminds himself daily, she cooks for him sometimes and he really appreciates it _ ) or Steve would come and sit with him, watching the birds or sharing a meal. He wasn't an idiot. Ever since he'd been on the run from Hydra, he knew his mind was on rocky ground; memories more spurious than starlight. Some nights he slept like the dead, other nights he felt the nightmares before he ever closed his eyes. Those nights it was just better not to sleep. This evening, particularly, he could feel memories tugging on him, ever since the pretty ( _ no, she was beautiful, he wasn't that far gone _ ) woman with the red hair had visited ( _ Natasha, he heard Steve call her Natasha _ ). She sat across from him and smiled at him, nothing suspicious or alarming, but for some odd reason, he kept hearing this old nursery rhyme in his head. “‘Come into my parlor’ said the spider to the fly.”

Bucky really wished he could figure out why.


	2. Empty Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha always finds a way to do anything, even when it hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *creeps in and looks around* So yeah, new chapter. Finally moving the story along a bit. This is un-beta'd, so any mistakes you see are my own. Of course, none of the characters belong to me. Side note: PTSD Service Dogs are a real thing, and a real help to our veterans, though used in service of story here. Thanks for reading!

The poets always said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. They were wrong about that. They were wrong about a lot of things. Natasha has lost so much and so often, she'd long since stopped being surprised by it, but it still hurt. Every time. She took that pain and held it close because it was, if nothing else, a potent reminder that she was not the monster they had tried to create; though not for lack of trying. She wondered how much gratitude she truly owed them for the “gifts” they had bestowed upon her. They had certainly made her resourceful. The Red Room had assured that particular trait went to the bone. If she lost her guns she could kill with a paperclip and a piece of string. Or her bare hands. She could survive in almost any conditions, though she had learned over time that money made continued existence much easier and much better, so she set out to take care of her friends in one of the few ways she could.

She had never needed the pay she received as an Avenger. In fact, she donated most of what she made to several charities she favored. Her assets were considerable and tucked safely away in offshore accounts. Part of her wanted to just liquidate one of her accounts and funnel all the money over to Steve. But she knew better. Steve would never accept charity, not even from her. Especially not from her; because he knew how she had acquired it. In order to help them, it needed to be from another source. Dirty money made clean. So she reached out to a few former resources. People who once operated in the shadowed areas like herself who had made the transition to legitimate work. SHIELD was slowly working it's way back from the dead, mostly still small teams that could sometimes use a hand. A Nobel Prize winning geneticist gets kidnapped by a Hydra cell, a phone call later and the good doctor is returned, safe as houses. And if it was Natasha who supplied the considerable reward money, well, no one needed to know that.

She assigned herself to the role of benefactor and guardian angel. It was the least she could do for them, to make up for the damage she had helped cause. Stark still won't take her calls, but Maria Hill was still someone who could be counted on to help. Information on amnesia and PTSD started to flood into her email account. Natasha has never needed much sleep, so she stayed up late into the night, reading studies on therapies and treatments. Sometimes she had to remind herself that even if he remembered her, she would never get him back. She had loved the Soldier, not Bucky Barnes. The Soldier was never coming back. And she knew that the world was better, and safer, for that. So, she researched and found creative ways to funnel money to them, but she never visited the brownstone in Philly again. 

The apartment in Brooklyn that she had kept for so many years stood empty still. She had never really used it, only kept it as a bolt-hole of sorts, keeping the utilities on and a small stash of weapons and cash in a safe box under the floorboards. But now she needed a base of operations, and, even if she was loathe to admit it, she wanted to be close to Bucky and Steve. Just in case things went sideways, she told herself as she perused the consignment furniture shop on Gramercy Park. It was easy for her to get from Brooklyn to Philly, either driving or by taking a train. Therefore the morning found her shopping for household goods, having a bed delivered that afternoon, smiling at the cashier as the girl packed up a few of the other essentials that she had chosen. A sofa and coffee table would be delivered with the bed. She could survive on takeout until she had a chance to outfit the tiny kitchen. It was a strange feeling, buying these things, but Natasha chose not to dwell on it as she made her way to the subway, and back to Brooklyn.

Her phone began to ring in her handbag and she shifted her shopping tote to answer it, fumbling her keys a bit as she unlocked the door of the apartment. Steve's voice sounded strained as he greeted her. Today was not a good day for Bucky she surmised. She set her bag on the counter in the kitchen and lowered herself onto the new bed pillow she had purchased this morning that lay on the floor, ready to let Steve vent his stress to her. 

“What's up, Steve? How's Bucky?”

“I'm not sure to be honest, Natasha. Some days it's almost like Bucky is back to 100%. I’ve gotten him reading the Harry Potter books. Other days, he's afraid of his own shadow and wakes up screaming in Russian. I just...I'm exhausted and it’s just past lunchtime.”

Natasha stayed quiet until Steve trailed off recognizing a good opportunity to bring up something she read about last night. She hoped Steve wouldn't think that she thought he was somehow a poor caregiver.

“I read about something that might be helpful, would you be interested in hearing about it?”

“Yeah, yeah I would. Anything would be better than doping my best friend up on Thorazine and hoping he calms the hell down.”

She tried to swallow back the laugh, managed to cover it with a cough. Poor Steve. She could see him in her mind’s eye, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He was so unfailing in his determination to save people. It was almost a relief to hear him sound so done, even as she sympathized with his pain. It made him seem a bit more human to her. 

“They have special dogs for people with PTSD and other kinds of mental trauma. I was reading an article on the internet about a program that trains the dogs. I could send you their website.”

“A dog, like a seeing eye dog?” she could hear the skepticism in his voice.

“Not the same. The dogs are trained to sense the onset of panic attacks, and can help soothe their charge, or protect them if necessary.” 

“But a dog, Tasha. All the care involved. Walking it, feeding it.”

“it might be good for Bucky to have something to do. Something to care for and look after. Like he used to do for you.”

There was quiet on the line, she could imagine the thought train highballing through the super soldier brain right now. So when he does speak again, she can't stop the laugh from bubbling out of her throat.

“But, what if he's allergic?”

“Steve, you're worried that your friend, the super soldier and former Hydra assassin, might be allergic to a dog.”

It took a minute, but soon his laughter joined hers at the absurdity of it. 

Steve agreed to read over the info she’s sending him and when they finally hang up, he sounded less tired than when they started. Natasha was going to call that a win for now. She rose from the floor as the buzzer sounded. Her furniture had arrived. On the way down to the door, her pistol snug at the small of her back, it occurred to her to wonder just how in the world Steve Rogers got his hands on Thorazine.


	3. White Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things Natasha does when she can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, I own the mistakes, just not the characters.

It felt strange to Natasha, waking up in the same place day after day. She'd always been the nomadic Avenger, mostly crashing in barracks or safe houses she had kept since before the fall of the Soviet Union. She never bothered making any sort of home for herself. It was too much like establishing ties, giving a potential advantage to those who wanted her dead or worse. But after the...incident in Germany, she realized that her home had never been brick and mortar; it was the people she cared about. She liked to think that she was still spy enough not to get caught up in things like relationships, but that was one lie she could never sell herself. Her home was her team, her family. Anything else was just a place to sleep. 

Of course, familiar surroundings didn't keep the nightmares away. She still woke sometimes in early morning hours, tangled in her sheets, covered in sweat, shivering as though she was still in the frigid dorms of the Red Room. No matter the hour, the only thing that would help is to make her way down to her car in the garage, and turn the radio up to scream while she drove away from Manhattan. She didn't usually go very far. North to Poughkeepsie and a winding road through the countryside, stopping at a small town bakery for coffee and a bagel. But this morning found her on the highway to Philadelphia, she found a bakery just opening and bought some pastries and a copy of the newspaper. An hour later she's sitting in her car a block away from Steve's home, trying to decide what to do, cursing herself for a coward. The most infuriating part is that she can't decide what she dreads more; that the man she loved doesn't remember her, or that someday he will. She ends up paying a teenager out for a morning jog five dollars to deliver the pastries to the brownstone. From her car, which she moved further away, she could see the sleepy, confused face of James Barnes as he accepts the parcel. He checked the street of course, but she stayed hidden. Her sigh echoed in the silent car as she made her way back to Manhattan. At least he looked better now, healthier. No more hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes. She told herself that it was enough.

 

He decided that he preferred James. He wasn't the Soldier any longer but neither was he Bucky. Everyone seemed fine with the name, even Steve did his best to respect his decision. His therapist was very excited about making small decisions, she seemed to think that mastering the little things helped with the bigger, harder things further down the road. Like trying to forgive yourself for what you did while brainwashed. He wasn’t there yet, his memory still too patchy, but some days he felt very close to human.

This morning he was making coffee while Sam and Steve went for a run. Wanda was still asleep, she kept later hours, usually reading or, as evidenced by the plate on the counter, baking cookies. She would emerge later in the morning, smile sleepily at him and steal the entertainment section of the newspaper. She liked to read the comic pages.

He liked that he knew where all of his people would be; his fractured psyche appreciated the stability of daily routines. The doorbell ringing was not part of the plan and for a moment, James froze. Should he answer it? He was unarmed currently, but he grabbed a chef knife out of the block on the counter and eased up to the door, peering through the peephole. It was a teenager, in workout clothes, darkened by sweat across the front. James had seen him around the neighborhood; jogging and sometimes doing yard work. Probably not a threat. The door creaked a bit as he opened it slowly. 

 

“Yes?” His voice sounded rusty, unused. He kept the knife down at his side, out of sight.

“Mr. Barnes? I was asked to bring this to you.” The kid sounded younger than he appeared, voice still slightly cracking with hormones. In his too-large hands he held a cardboard box.

James eyed the box with suspicion. It was pale blue, with darker blue script on it, the logo of a bakery. It looked familiar, maybe Sam had brought something like this home before? He gave his head a slight shake, now wasn’t the time for analysis.

“What is it?” The young man flipped open the box, revealing pastries of various kinds, iced in pastel colors, dusted with sugar. James had a wicked sweet tooth. He remembered that from before...well, everything. He accepted the box carefully, managed to smile and nod a bit before shutting and locking the door.

He placed the box on the counter and went to put away the knife. They could be poisoned of course. But at least they didn’t appear to be rigged to explode. He would wait for Sam and Steve to come home to decide what to do. He hoped they finished their run soon; he had his eye on the cream-filled  _ ponchiki. _

 

Her phone rang as she merged into traffic, not very far from her new home. She tapped the button to allow the device to connect to the car speakers. 

“Natasha, did you bring us pastries?” It was Steve; she could hear Sam and James in the background.

“Why do you ask? Did a good Samaritan bring you some breakfast, Captain?” She was teasing him a bit, his grave nature needed leavening on most days.

“I’m hoping it was you, Nat. Otherwise, Bucky...I mean, James is going to be upset because we’ll have to trash them.”

Well, that would be a terrible waste of good money and good carbohydrates. 

“Yes, I brought them. I was out for a drive. Enjoy the fat and sugar, guys. No poisons, Widow’s honor.” She very deliberately does not think about that contradiction in terms, instead focusing on Sam’s celebratory whoop followed by the beginnings of an argument over who gets what pastry.

“Thanks, Nat. When he thought we would have to toss them, I swear, you’d think I had kicked a kitten.”

Natasha smiled as she turned into her parking garage carefully, using the mirrors to check for tailing cars as always.

“James always liked sweets. Talk to you later, Steve.”

She disconnected the call and for a moment just sat in her car, wishing she had been able to stay and enjoy the Sunday treat with them. But she had work to do still, and promises wouldn’t keep themselves.


	4. Reign Over Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of a mission gone wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update has been a little slow coming, but hopefully worth the wait. Un-beta'd.

James “Bucky” Barnes felt good about going with Steve and Sam on the mission. It was a simple extraction, he was just the backup. His mind had been quiet for a while, memories sliding in here and there like puzzle pieces. He felt none of the queasiness as he tugged on kevlar and cleaned his rifle. Sam was tightening his holsters, Steve was tugging his vest into place. Wanda sat quietly, small in the black tac gear that was a little too big on her. He worried about her a little, even though he’d seen what she was capable of doing. It was good to be on a team by choice again.

 

The universe had other plans for them. The mission went sideways, and while he only supposed to watch everyone’s back; he had to take the shot. It's the first time since he broke his programming. Memories of other shots, other kills rolled over him like water over a failing levee. 

They made it home safely, but Bucky is silent to near catatonia. Steve called Natasha for backup as they made the approach to the landing site in Philly. Bucky moved as though his every joint was made of metal, holding on to his self-control like a man drowning. He allowed Sam and Steve to wrestle the weapons and tactical armor off of him, leaving him in an undershirt and boxer briefs. He made no sound until he was under the water, Steve at his six, so that he wouldn’t fall. The sounds that came from his throat were ragged and hoarse, his words broken. Until Natasha steps quietly into the bathroom. Bucky swayed under the pounding water and Steve was immediately at his back, bracing him solidly. His words were no longer broken, but a torrent of Russian that caused tears to immediately spring to Natasha's eyes. She shrugged off her leather jacket and kicked off her shoes and socks, skinned out of her yoga pants. She opened the shower door and slipped inside, still in her T-shirt. The flow of Bucky's words was lost to harsh sobs and Natasha saw Steve's lips pressed into a thin line, clearly on the verge of weeping himself. She'd find out what happened later. She slid her arms around Bucky's waist, one hand resting on Steve's side just behind him. She kept her voice low and soothing; Russian and some other languages mixed in. Steve didn't speak Russian, but he caught the odd word of French and German in the tide of her words. It was almost a lullaby, and it worked, Bucky quieted save for the occasional hitching breath. They stayed like that, until the water began to cool.

 

Natasha's mind slipped back to another time, another cold tile shower.  The water sluicing off of her had been tinged with red. It was her first mission with the Soldier and the first time she had killed anyone other than her target. Someone had gotten in her way, a girl only a few years younger than Natasha, there was no choice and the blade of her knife fell. Collateral damage, acceptable loss, her trainers would have said. But all Natasha could see was the blood that pooled like rain on the pavement. So much of it. Later on, in the safe house, she knelt in the shower, hot tears streamed from her eyes as she tried to swallow any sounds she made. The Red Room did not allow its operatives such luxuries as sorrow or regret. “You are made of marble,” the litany was on her lips, barely a whisper and suddenly he was there. The Soldier. Armor removed, clad only in a pair of black pants; he stood outside the glass enclosure, his expression impassive as always. She dashed the tears from her cheeks, tried to collect herself again, waited to be reprimanded for weakness. But a sad smile quirked his lips, lips she had no business dreaming of, and then he knelt beside her in the water, pulling her into his arms. His voice was so rough, but his words are English and it sounded strange to Natasha, who had never heard his natural Brooklyn accent.

“Shhh, Natalia. I'm here, sweetheart.”

The strange, sweet words wrapped around her like a scarf in the bleak midwinter. He had trained her, watched her, had been her backup and her partner. Now it felt like she was seeing him for the first time. The man behind the blue eyed machine. His lips found hers as the cold water poured over them, warm and soft, offering his strength, his comfort. 

 

Getting out of the shower was much easier than getting in; Bucky was more pliant now, the worst of the episode past him. Natasha took his weight on her shoulder, helping him out of the bathroom. Steve stayed in, wanting to have a proper wash so she closed the door behind them for his privacy.  In the bedroom, she rummaged in the bureau, tossed him some flannel sleep pants and kept her face to the wall as he stripped off the remainder of his wet clothing. He was under the blankets when she turned back, damp hair in tangles on the pillow. She sat next to him on the bed when he nodded.

 

“Rest now,  _ dorogoi _ . I will keep watch.” 

 

The redhead who had visited before ( _ Natasha...no, that wasn’t right. _ )had returned, and now sat on the edge of his bed. Her hair was wet, she wore only a wet t-shirt, he felt his ears turn a little pink as he looked elsewhere. His jumbled brain tried to sort through a sequence of events that would result in that, finally stumbling on to the mission, the cold grip of his memories strangling him and then, her. He knew her name was Natasha, Steve mentioned her often, but somehow it didn’t seem like her name. Her presence was comforting, warm and quiet. He studied her face in the soft light of the bedside lamp, her eyes were very green, shadowed now. He wondered if she had trouble sleeping like he did. There was more to her face that he wanted to see, to examine, but he was so tired. She sat beside him and stroked his head in silence, until his weary eyes closed and he slept.

 

Natasha swiped a pair of what were probably Wanda’s pajamas from the laundry room off the kitchen. She made coffee in the kitchen, keeping her hands busy. It’s quiet in the house, Sam and Wanda had gone to bed, so she made only half a pot of coffee. She poured two mugs full of the strong beverage, hoping to chase the chill of her own nightmares away. Steve padded into the kitchen in bare feet and plaid sleep pants, hair still damp. She passed him a mug, and he sipped it carefully, savoring the bitter heat.

“He was just supposed to cover us. I never wanted him to have to kill again.” Steve's voice was hoarse with frustrated grief. 

“I know, Steve. And he knows it too, because in his heart, he knows you. And I imagine that if Bucky had to take a shot, he would rather do it for you than anyone else. To him, you’re worth it.”

Her breath hitched a little as she tried to comfort him. She wasn’t built to be comforting. It felt strange, like a shoulder harness that was too big for her. 

 

“He was captured and tortured and I couldn’t save him. He fell and I still couldn’t save him.” Steve’s eyes were red-rimmed and hollow as he dropped his gaze to his coffee mug. Her chest tightened in sympathy. Natasha slid her arms around him, giving him something to hold for a moment. She knew how it felt, to be unable to save the person you loved. To see them ripped away from you, knowing you will never be able to make it right. She concentrated on Steve’s hands, rubbing her shoulders gently.

“I know, Steve, I’m so sorry. I couldn't save him either”


End file.
